


Let Not Your Sorrow Die

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Vignette, wow that makes it sound a lot worse than it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:13:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock stays over at John and Mary's while she's away and imprudently surprises John in his sleep.</p><p>[An idea I haven't been able to get out of my head for months, finally and bluntly being excised.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Not Your Sorrow Die

**Author's Note:**

> Oft have I digged up dead men from their graves,  
> And set them upright at their dear friends’ door,  
> Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;  
> And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,  
> Have I with my knife carved in Roman letters,  
> ‘Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.’
> 
> Aaron, _Titus Andronicus_ 5.1.135-140

            With Mary spending the weekend with her parents in Cardiff, Sherlock had decided that, in the absence of a case, it was the perfect opportunity to annoy John for three days straight without the barrier of living in separate flats. He’d come over for lunch and to say goodbye to Mary, and had then conveniently just not left: not even after they’d got through risotto and a bottle of wine, and an entirely-too-entertaining evening of watching the video Lestrade had sent to John years ago, of Sherlock, drugged by Irene Adler and incapable even of keeping his feet, let alone a full sentence. Sherlock had demanded deletion, John had refused, and they’d ended up on the floor of the sitting room, a tangled mess, with John’s phone having skittered into oblivion under the sofa.

            Still, they got the phone back, and John staunchly refused to delete the video, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and acquiesced with a patently false grumble of annoyance. John got a sheet and duvet and pillows to set Sherlock up on the sofa, and warned him against impromptu experiments in his and Mary’s kitchen, and went to bed with a smile on his face.

            He woke suddenly, ungently, and frowned: the sun wasn’t even up, and he couldn’t fathom what had woken him. He hadn’t been dreaming; but the bed behind him had dipped, and Mary was away… He turned almost onto his back, meaning to ask Sherlock what the hell he thought he was doing, but froze before he ever managed to make a sound.

            Beside him, Sherlock’s face was lifeless and pale. His eyes were wide, glassy, empty chips of ice, and in rivulets from his nose and mouth, and a great, staining pool beneath his temple, was stark, thick, red, _red_ blood.

            John screamed.

            When he blinked, Sherlock’s skin was pink, his hair and face clean, and his eyes were blinking open, sluggish and annoyed.

            “Eugh, John,” he grumbled into his pillow, “what are you _doing…”_

            John had pushed up onto his hands, and was already panting. “Wh—”

            “I was trying to sleep.”

            “What – Sherlock what the – _fuck_ are you doing –”

            “It was cold on the sofa,” Sherlock mumbled, burying his face in his pillow. “Why are you _shouting –”_

            “Out, get out,” John snapped, as he sat further up and pushed himself away from where Sherlock was lying. “Jesus Christ, what were you _thinking –_ just get out, did you hear me? _Out!”_

            Sherlock lifted bleary eyes to him, and frowned. “What – all I did was try to get some _sleep –”_

            “I don’t fucking _care_ about your sleep,” John shouted, “just get out – why are you _here, get out!”_ He lashed out, kicking at Sherlock’s sleepy form and yelling until he relented, and rolled out of John’s bed, pillow under arm and his duvet dragging behind him like a child’s safety blanket. Even as he slammed the door behind him, John sat up in bed, breathing hard and trying to calm his racing heart. _It was just a dream, it was just a dream,_ he repeated to himself, the words escaping in whispers on his lips as he bent his knees and buried his face in his arms atop them. _It’s been over a year, why are you getting so worked up?_

            He didn’t sleep at all until dawn, only dozing intermittently while Sherlock’s face swam behind his eyelids, now streaked with blood, and now waking, safe and whole, until John wasn’t even sure which memory was real.


End file.
